Keep count, I entreat;You will find I have told it you twice.'Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete,If only I've stated it thrice."The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care,Attending to every word:But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair,When the third repetition occurred.It felt that, in spite of all possible pains,It had somehow contrived to lose count,And the only thing now was to rack its poor brainsBy reckoning up the amount."Two added to one — if that could but be done,"It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!"Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years,It had taken no pains with its sums."The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think.The thing must be done, I am sure.The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink,The best there is time to procure."The Beaver brought paper,portfolio, pens,And ink in unfailing supplies:While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens,And watched them with wondering eyes.So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not,As he wrote with a pen in each hand,And explained all the while in a popular styleWhich the Beaver could well understand."Taking Three as the subject to reason about -A convenient number to state -We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply outBy One Thousand diminished by Eight."The result we proceed to divide, as you see,By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two:Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must beExactly
